


burning with desire for a kiss

by mistrali



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale has a vulva, Crowley has a vulva, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mute Aziraphale, Night at Crowley’s Flat, POC Crowley, PTSD, Romance, Suicidal Ideation, character with disability, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-20 17:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21285827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: A/C, after the airbase.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Nomme de Penne on discord for feedback.

Five steps into Crowley’s flat and they’re practically propping themselves up against the door, boneless with shellshock at their close shave. It’s been so long since they were in a battle - not since, oh, not since the 16th century, the last trickle of the Crusades. Oh, there have been wars aplenty since then, but Upstairs and Downstairs aren’t quite so gung-ho these days. They’re tangled up in politics and have all but forgotten the angel and demon stationed on Earth since before the Flood. But this time, even if they’d fled from the fighting, they would’ve been fugitives, hunted down at the last and captured for treason.

_I want_, says Aziraphale. His hands are trembling so much he has to stop and try again to make the signs come out right. _I want to sleep beside each other, like in the old days._

“Er. Outside?” says Crowley, after what looks like a struggle to find words. Aziraphale shakes his head, looks up at the light-polluted London sky. _Too exposed_, he says, and Crowley is startled into a laugh. “About time,” he says. “I’ve tried to convince you to sleep in a bed for years.”

_Yes, dear,_ says Aziraphale, with a sheepish grin. _I thought you were trying to tempt me._ He closes his eyes. He’d finally bedded down in tents under the stars when he’d joined the Qin armies. How interminable that had been, days and nights of marching. Kamael, wise in the ways of warfare, had not only taken Aziraphale under his wing but had marched beside him nearly every minute of the ordeal. He’d used miracles to ease the way when Aziraphale, with all his prodigious strength spent on healing the humans’ wounds — wounds which weren’t even in his jurisdiction and should properly have been treated by Raphael — had been too exhausted to see straight. When Kamael had been summoned back halfway through the campaign, Aziraphale had sobbed himself to sleep most nights, and had been so desolate that he’d seriously contemplated discorporating himself for a few years’ reprieve. It was only the knowledge he’d be sent back to the same seething, mindless carnage that had stopped him. All that wasted effort for a slap on the wrist. Heaven didn’t hold with stress leave.

Once upon a time, he couldn’t have articulated these thoughts, and if he had, he would have thought them timid and selfish, instead of half-realised, half-buried disenchantment with Above. He’d just have gone to India, or Greece, or Rome, and fought their battles because that was what a good soldier did.

His eyes spill over and he wipes at them, then remembers himself and takes a deep breath. If he starts crying now he’ll never stop. Crowley, meanwhile, has had the decency to stagger towards the kitchen while Aziraphale collects himself. “Sa- Somebody,” he groans. “I need a drink. What’ll you have, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s stomach churns at the thought of liquor. _Cocoa. Please. Thank you._ He sinks into the leather couch and tries not to wring his hands or fidget while he waits. Instead, he stares down at his own reflection in the chrome-and-glass expanse of the coffee table. The hell of it is that they got off lightly. One bookshop isn’t such a bad price to pay, not for all of humanity. He doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.

“I put a nip in it,” Crowley says, sauntering back with the cup of cocoa (complete with marshmallow) and a full wineglass. When he goes to take the cup, Aziraphale’s fingers brush velvet-soft against Crowley’s.  


The warmth and sweetness of the drink help him feel more grounded; his skin’s not so clammy now, and Crowley’s flat doesn’t feel as cold as it did ten minutes ago. The austerity of the flat makes him miss — but no, he won’t think about his bookshop, or he‘s going to cry again. He focuses on Crowley instead, on the bob of his throat as he drinks his Chateau de Neuf.

An hour and six brandy-laced cocoas later, Aziraphale’s scribbling mad and slightly off-kilter gestures in the air, about everything from Confucius to Senegalese drought to trigonometry. And somehow, impossibly, Crowley’s arms come up around him to steady him, one hand braced on his waist to stop him from pitching off the sofa. And that’s too much for Aziraphale’s crumbling willpower, never staunch to begin with and only bolstered by his now-ruined faith in Heaven. He wants to warm Crowley, to protect and cherish him. He’s been daydreaming about this for... he doesn’t know how long. It soothes and settles some long-held need — to embrace Crowley like this, to be allowed to love him just for these few years, when Heaven and Hell are busy cleaning up their own mess. They owe Adam a debt of gratitude.

Then he remembers to look up and tilts his head in a silent query.

“‘Better not make a habit of it,” mumbles Crowley, in reply. He looks dazed, and unbelievably lovely even with his hair mussed. “Can’t go round hugging the Advers’ry. ‘S not diab - di- demonic.”

Aziraphale can’t help but smile at him. Crowley’s eyes are doubly bright under the downlights; the tenderness in them, and the hint of uncertainty, redoubles Aziraphale’s own gratitude. _Very well_, he says._No hugs, then. But surely Hell doesn’t object to massages. There’s more scope for temptation._ He looks at the demon sidelong. 

”Oi, watch it - that’s my line,” says Crowley, breathlessly. Aziraphale doesn’t let himself wonder if the raggedness in Crowley’s voice is due to lust, pain or simple exhaustion. They’ve done this before, but never when both of them are so wrecked. It’s mostly been when Crowley’s shedding.

Aziraphale turns the television off, just in case someone Below tries to contact them. Then he kneels by the sofa and takes off the demon’s shirt. He splays his hands across Crowley’s bony shoulders, kneading the muscles there, and maps out Crowley’s spine with his fingers until the tension’s drained. The demon’s breathy sighs do nothing to help Aziraphale’s composure. With a final circle around the shoulder blades, he takes his hands off Crowley’s body.

“Nff,” says Crowley, sitting up and stretching like a cat. “Bloody hell, angel, where’d you learn that? You’ll do me out of a job, at this rate.“

_Comes in handy after a day’s march, _says Aziraphale, moving his palms swiftly to cup Crowley’s cheeks. Crowley goes quite still and, ah, his eyes are shades of umber and gold, and little spots of peach. Aziraphale can feel the heat of him, can feel his pulse in his left temple. He only has to lean forward a little to — to- oh. Oh.

His own breath’s high and sharp in his ears as he deepens the kiss. Crowley gives a quiet, choked-off moan that makes goosebumps rise on Aziraphale’s arms. Both of them are panting by the time they break apart, Crowley’s face still cradled between Aziraphale’s hands. It feels like a benediction to have this, this small privilege so long imagined. He peppers the demon’s cheeks and nose with kisses, long slow lingering ones.

“Bed,” growls Crowley. He half-manoeuvres, half-miracles them into the bedroom, and hauls Aziraphale up to lie on top of him in an undignified sprawl. They kiss some more, tangled on top of one another in grotesque, sweat-soaked imitation of Crowley’s wrestling statue.

The lights go out; the sheets have turned cream, strewn with roses and birds of paradise. There’s a replica of Aziraphale’s favourite rug on the floor and the room’s hung with star-shaped lanterns, giving Aziraphale enough light to see by (not that he can’t create more with a thought, but Crowley’s eagerness to serve makes him glow with happiness - at being cared for, at being seen). Rose perfume burns in the censer. Aziraphale’s smile threatens to split his face in two.

_You old romantic_, he says, nudging Crowley. Crowley huffs and ducks his head so his face is hidden. Aziraphale tilts his chin gently up and says, very seriously, _but you are, Crowley; you’ve got a centre like an eclair._

“Wanker,” says Crowley petulantly, but his breath hitches.

_Language!_ And Aziraphale winches out his wings.

All Crowley’s insouciance returns in a second. His own wings snap out too and he half-sits up on the bed. He’s manifested himself an Effort, too, in more places than one; Aziraphale’s eyes skitter off it and back up to Crowley’s face.

“See anything you like?” drawls Crowley.

_ Vain creature. Plenty, as it happens._

An expectant silence, but Aziraphale knows the next move in this game. He’s danced the steps faultlessly for six thousand years. _Clothes?_ he says, planting a kiss to Crowley’s hand. Like clockwork, the nod; and Aziraphale’s fingers strip the garments deftly away.

That done, he closes his eyes and makes a vulva, like Crowley has. Then, too impatient to undress, he miracles his clothes away. When he opens his eyes again, Crowley’s staring. Wide-eyed, almost salivating, as though Aziraphale were his own personal banquet.

Even Aziraphale’s unprepared for the heady rush of Crowley’s adoration. It’s like being worshipped. He almost doesn’t dare to say it even in his own head, but he doubts She would mind. After all, Crowley’s goodness is like a beacon next to Aziraphale’s fickle little candle, which blows out in every high wind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The temptation quote is, of course, Wilde’s.

When Aziraphale looks up from _Mansfield Park_ (Crowley’s copy of _Trainspotting_ having been persuaded, much to its surprise, to transform) it’s to sunlight spilling across their bed and a very naked demon gazing adoringly at him. Crowley ducks his head a flicker of a second too late: there’s such a warmth in his face, such a glow in his eyes, that Aziraphale feels like one of his own rare books, up on display in a museum somewhere. But no book, surely, was ever treasured so well, or read so carefully.

“Er. Hi,” says Crowley, to the bedsheet. “Morning. Ngk.”

_Good morning, dear,_ says Aziraphale. Lightly, so as not to embarrass him further, poor thing. _Sleep well?_

“Yeah. _Angel_,” begins Crowley. “Last night... we, ah, you, I mean...” and then his tongue seems to get caught somewhere on the way. He begins to sit up and, even though Aziraphale doesn’t see what all the fuss is about when it comes to human bodies, he notes with pleasure that Crowley’s form is lithe, almost hairless, dark and sinuous. Here a hip pokes out from the covers, here the curve of a shoulder.

“Clothes,” croaks Crowley, and miracles them on with a wave. And then he gapes at Aziraphale.

_You know_, says Aziraphale, nuzzling Crowley’s neck, _for someone who was so damnably fond of taking the initiative last night, you‘re very tongue-tied in the cold light of day._

At that Crowley seems to recover himself. “Don’t recall you objecting,” he drawls, and Aziraphale smiles. _I didn’t, emphatically so_, he agrees, leaning in for a kiss. _The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, my dear. And what else _could _I have done with a demon who’s so irresistible?_

Whereupon Crowley, eyes sparkling and smile just a bit too fond to be wicked, kisses him with a fervour that promises many, many more days of this to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Another attempted kink meme fill [for this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=766824#cmt766824). Title from Tigerlily by La Roux.
> 
> M more for the PTSD than... well, there’s no smut, since I can’t write it.
> 
> Unbetaed
> 
> Edited on 29/12/19.


End file.
